


take care

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Sickfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: bucky takes care of you when you’re sick





	take care

You hate being sick…absolutely hate it. Your nose is stuffed like an overfilled turkey on Thanksgiving, your throat is dry and cracked like asphalt during an Arizona summer, your eyes itchy like mosquitoes had a rave in your eye sockets, your muscles feel like you just ran four marathons back to back without stretching or water, and you’re tired -  _So. Fucking. Tired._  You’re pretty sure just breathing is causing you to be fatigued.

Often when you’re so sick you feel time stand still, you just barricade yourself in your apartment and abandon all contact with the outside world until you can both hold down solid foods and walk to some place other than your bathroom. You simply resign yourself to watching old episodes of bad shows on Netflix (no one needs to know that you’ve seen every episode of Hemlock Grove at least six times) and sighing every time the “Are you still there?” screen shows up.

But all of that was  _before_ Bucky. Bucky - sweet,  _sweet_ Bucky. A lot of people who don’t know the Avengers think that Steve is the coddler. He’s nice - it’s not like he’s some sort of apathetic douchenozzle who gives zero fucks about the people around him. In truth, Bucky’s the real sucker. You always guess it’s the fact that his best friend (inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield) was sick so constantly and under such horrible societal scrutiny for all of his (pre-serum) life. Bucky was always the one that protected him, shielded him, took care of him when he was sick. It’s part of Bucky’s basic nature to care for the people around him - especially you.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern as he sets the half-empty bowl of broth on the disorganized night desk that’s been cleared of its used tissues but not its clutter from your daily life.

All you have the energy to do is release what can only be described as the tiniest and grumpiest “mm” anyone in the history of the world has ever heard, which Bucky translates into “no.” He frowns, rubbing the pads of the fingers on his flesh hand over your overheated face. The gesture is meant to be soothing, but because your sinuses are more clogged than the New York subway system it borders on painful. “Mmmrphf” You hiss, sounding like a cat who’s just been unexpectedly awoken by their human.

Gingerly, Bucky curls up behind you and barricades himself with your cocoon made of thrift store quilts (did you mention that you have the chills?). His cool metal arm wraps around your waist - causing you coo at the welcome sensation. You two stay like that - molded together in your own little infected world until Bucky josts you awake a few hours (though it feels like five minutes) later. “Babe…” he nudges, sniffing at the shoulder stitch of your ratty band t-shirt from your freshman year of high school. “How long have you been wearing these clothes?” He continues sniffing like some disgruntled Basset Hound around your hairline. “And when was the last time you showered?”

“M’dunno,” you mumble into your pillows, wanting to just slip back into your deep slumber for the rest of time. Before you can, though, you feel the mattress dip then fluff back up again as Bucky stands up. Just as you think he’s about to leave you alone, you feel your diseased body being dragged closer to where Bucky stands. As he does so, you use all of your might (so…not much) to try and wriggle yourself out of his deathly grasp as an act of protest. No such luck.

Damned superserum.

“I’m going to draw you a bath while I clean your sheets and then you’re going to change into something clean, okay?” Bucky more tells than asks you.

“Mmm,” is all you reply.  _Maybe if you act like you’re dead he’ll leave you alone…_ Your stiff muscles and aching body sure feel like rigor mortis has already set it…if you just…move…even…less…

Bucky chuckles, which isn’t exactly the reaction you were hoping for. “You want me to carry you, don’t you?” Well, you’ll take that, too. You reach your limp arms up, trying to seem as helpless and pitiful as possible with your small frown and sheet pattern imprinted on your face and childish grabby hands. His deep blue shirt is soft under your fingers, which only motivates you to continue. “Okay,” Bucky sighs out. “Just let me draw the bath first. You want a bath bomb?”

_Of course I want a bath bomb, who do you think you’re talking to!?_  Your brain screams.

“Mhm,” you say.

The sounds of the water running and bath slowly filling drifts you back to sleep, while the loud, sharp noises of Bucky rifling through your drawers for a comfortable pair of pajamas and under your bed for an extra set of sheets occasionally jolts you awake for a few seconds. Soon, you can feel Bucky pick you up bridal style before propping you up on your toilet, stripping you of your (frankly, absolutely disgusting) clothes and gently lowering you into the tub. It’s filled as high as it’ll go - just like you love it - and it’s just warm enough that you sigh in pleasure as the heat soothes your sore body and the steam clears your nose, but not so much that it burns your already feverish skin. One of your extremely fluffy towels is rolled up behind your head (obviously as a pillow), and soon you fall back asleep again.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s using his super-cool-and-stealthy-assassin skills to pad around you house. First he strips your bed and places what should be considered biohazardous sheets in your washing machine along with the clothes you’ve been wearing (what Bucky guesses) since you first felt sick, which was a few days ago. Bucky, one to rarely do his own laundry (some AI does that for him, which sometimes makes him feel extremely paranoid and sometimes lucky. What can he say, James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes can be a lazy-ass motherfucker), is sort of baffled by your extremely complicated machine. In the end, he chooses the hottest and most rigorous settings. He doesn’t put the new sheets on the bed - not yet, at least - and instead goes back to the bathroom. There, he finds you passed out, lightly snoring, and occasionally making this small grumbling noise he likens to a dog dreaming of chasing squirrels or the mailman.

He grabs the jar of the face mask you love so much from below the sink and the brush you always use for it from your make up bag - one you bought so long ago that the logo and inspirational quote are too faded to see unless you squint. Carefully, methodically, he tries to emulate the motions he’s seen you do on countless occasions. He coats your face in an even film of the green concoction while avoiding your nostrils, eyebrows, lips, eyes. Carefully, tenderly, he places one hand on the back of your neck while supporting your head. The other goes across your stomach and under your back. With all the precision of a mother cradling a newborn during a water baptism, he lowers you until your hair is wet. Some of the water falls down your face and washes away the mask, the green sludge falling down your chest and then dissipating into the water.

He leans you back against the towel-pillow, looking around the bathroom for all of your hair stuff. He finds it under the sink in a mesh…something. A carrier? Tote bag? Natasha uses one, he knows that. Hers is a silverish, though. Yours is a faded pink, like you’ve owned it for awhile. That’s one of the things Bucky loves the most about you, your refusal to succumb to planned obsolescence. A couple of tears litter the outside pockets and along some of the seams, crudely sewn together with plastic thread. In it, he finds razors, shaving cream, a few different types of body wash (which Bucky doesn’t really get. Why do you need body wash in  _multiple different scents_?), two containers of the same conditioner, some shampoo, a loofah, a washcloth, and a bunch of other stuff Bucky has no idea what to do with (Shower jelly? Bars of soap? More lotion? How much stuff does one woman need?).

He uses the coconut-scented shampoo first, squirting some into his hands the massaging it into your hair. You purr a little as he scratches at your scalp, making Bucky smile. He stops for a moment to kiss your temple (a sweet spot where there’s neither face mask nor soapy water from your hair. After washing that from your hair, he takes extra special care to dab around your hairline with a washcloth to make sure the rest of the mask doesn’t come off. He knows from past…shower experiences…that you leave your conditioner in for longer than your shampoo. So after Bucky washes the shampoo from your head he massages in the corresponding conditioner (whoever’s idea it was to put a “1” on the shampoo and “2” on the conditioner is an absolute genius), he wipes off the mask, rubs facial lotion into your…face, does a lip scrub. Really, he does everything he can find. He has no idea how long the conditioner should stay in your hair, he just knows it’s the last thing you wash out of your hair.

Oh, wait…the sheets. He retrieves the now clean, fresh, and - most importantly -  _warm_ sheets from your dryer before making your bed for you. By this time, you’ve woken up enough to rinse your hair out and drain the tub yourself - but still aren’t strong enough to dry yourself off. There Bucky finds you - damp and shivering like a stray caught out in the rain. He chuckles a little at your stubbornness to be self-reliant before wrapping you in the fluffiest towel he could find in your linen closet and gingerly placing you back onto your bed. You hum as your body hits the warm sheets, but are still aren’t satisfied. Once again, you pathetically reach for Bucky.

“You want me to cuddle with you some more?” Bucky asks, already crawling in next to you.  As he wraps himself around you again, you coo happily. He chuckles as you drift off to sleep once again, hoping you wake up in the morning feeling much better than you did today.


End file.
